


Software Retrieval

by Sed



Category: Tron: Legacy (2010), Tron: Uprising
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 20:50:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sed/pseuds/Sed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dyson is a new program on the Grid, left to his own devices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Software Retrieval

**Author's Note:**

> 3/31/14: **If you like this fic, please save a copy of it. I will be deleting it on 4/30/14. ******

Dyson slipped into an empty seat at the end of the counter. The other programs in the bar were mingling around the windows, or gathering in small groups out on the dance floor. He dismissed the possibility of joining them; his body still felt odd from rezzing, like he would trip over his own code if he didn’t keep an eye on his feet. Everything felt… well, it _felt_. That was the problem. He wasn’t used to sensation just yet. It all seemed strangely wrong, even though everything registered optimal, and several self-checks had returned no abnormalities. He resigned himself to feeling strange for a while; after all, it was probably normal.  
  
Or maybe it wasn’t.  
  
He ran another check, just to be safe.  
  
“You’re part of the new security suite, right?” A program slid into view on his right, making Dyson jump in his seat. When the unfamiliar program invited himself to sit down, Dyson tried his best to suppress the urge to lean the other way—or get up and leave entirely. “Have you met Tron yet?” the program asked casually. _Too_ casually, Dyson thought. He wondered if this program had an ulterior motive. He looked shifty.  
  
“Tron is the primary system monitor,” Dyson answered mechanically. He was reciting from an automated script that had been applied to his base code when he was rezzed. It imprinted the chain of command on his processes, and then copied itself to his disc, just in case. When he realized the other program was still staring at him expectantly, Dyson cleared his throat and shook his head. “No,” he said honestly. “I haven’t met him yet.”  
  
“He’s something. Wait ‘til you see him in action.”  
  
Dyson nodded slowly. He wished he’d thought to order something before the intrusive program sat down. He could have at least pretended to be absorbed in his drink. As it was, the program was doing his best to lean as far into Dyson’s field of vision as physically possible without crawling up onto the counter. The only way Dyson could avoid the eventual discomfort of accidental eye contact was to turn away, and that just seemed overly rude. He was just beginning to work up the nerve to ask for some space, when he felt the touch of a circuited palm on his shoulder. “Why don’t I show you around the sector?” came the program’s quiet suggestion. He emphasized the obvious innuendo with a gentle squeeze. The touch sent a light jolt down Dyson’s arm, making him shiver. That was another new sensation. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it.  
  
His uninvited companion had slipped off his own seat and leaned down over Dyson’s now-hunched back. He left his hand on the monitor’s shoulder, and placed the other on the bar, effectively trapping Dyson in his seat unless he wished to resort to force. The situation was rapidly approaching unacceptable. Who knew other programs could be so _pushy?_ “I don’t think—”  
  
“Don’t worry, I know my way around,” the program nearly whispered in his ear. Like his earlier question, the double meaning was crude, and rather obvious.  
  
Dyson barely registered the sudden lull in the endless chatter that had been filtering through the music over the continual efforts of the unfamiliar program to lure him outside. “I have a light cycle,” the program continued, heedless of the change. “It’s big enough f—”  
  
“ _Dyson_ , right?”  
  
Dyson instinctively turned to face the new speaker; his self-appointed companion did the same, finally freeing Dyson from his unwelcome attention.  
  
On the steps leading up to the bar, flanked by what appeared to be two more monitors, stood a program Dyson felt he should recognize. An odd sort of familiarity came over him, but it was fleeting. Whoever he was, the new program seemed important; the sentries beside him were masked and armed, each carrying a full complement of grenades and four batons apiece. He knew there was occasional need for security, the odd random gridbug attack in the unfinished sectors, but he had no knowledge of a need for armed escorts. Maybe, then, this was Tron. “Yes,” he said. “I’m Dyson.” He stood and turned fully to face the new program, doing a quick, visual appraisal. The program’s render was impressive; the only flaw seemed to be an improper interrupt in the code for his hair, of all things. It continued down the side of his face, tapering sharply until it was almost too short to notice. The effect was… a little messy. “I’m afraid my registry doesn’t recognize you, however.”  
  
The program left his escorts and stepped up onto the level of the bar. He had both hands clasped behind his back, and he smiled as he swung his gaze from Dyson to the pushy program at his side. It lingered for just a moment, and then, without so much as a word from the newcomer, the program excused himself sheepishly, ducking to the side and disappearing into the crowd. It was altogether surreal. Dyson couldn’t help but stare at the space he had left. “Strange,” he muttered.  
  
“I’ve been looking for you,” the new program said, continuing as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “And, well,” he paused, “Tron has also been looking for you.” He smiled again, this time spreading his arms out in a half-apologetic shrug. “It looks like I found you first.”  
  
“So, you’re _not_ Tron,” Dyson said.  
  
The program shook his head. “No, I’m Clu.”  
  
Instant recognition struck Dyson. “System administrator.”  
  
“That would be me.” Clu swung his arm around and gestured to the door at the back of the bar. “Shall we?”  
  
“I wasn’t aware I had been expected anywhere.” Dyson suddenly felt rather foolish; after he and the other monitors in his suite had been rezzed, they were all simply released onto the Grid. He had spent a good half a milicycle waiting around for someone to give him orders. As there were no immediate threats to the safety of the system in the area, he eventually wandered off. The bar was the first building to draw his attention. If he had known he was expected to stay, he never would have left.  
  
“That, uh,” Clu scratched the back of his head and chuckled quietly. “That’s a little hard to explain. You’ll understand when you meet Flynn.”  
  
“The user,” Dyson blurted out. He stood pin straight when Clu looked up at him. “My apologies, sir.” All programs were understandably touchy about their users; it made sense that Clu would be especially protective of his own.  
  
Clu’s expression softened again, and he shook off the sudden tension. “No need,” he said. “Let’s get going.”  
  
“Certainly, sir.” Dyson replied crisply.  
  
Clu fixed Dyson with a quizzical look that seemed a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “You don’t have to call me _sir_ ,” he said.  
  
Dyson nodded and fell into place beside the other programs. “Understood, Administrator,” he corrected as Clu stepped up to the front of the small procession. He allowed himself a smirk when Clu stalled just long enough to cause a small collision between the escorts. Watching them try to regain their composure and recover their fractured dignity, Dyson aborted the self-check he had started earlier. Maybe there wasn't anything wrong with him, after all.


End file.
